


Manual Override

by Zarla



Series: Vargas Stories [21]
Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Nonconsensual Masturbation, Original Character(s), Really unhealthy relationships, Religious Guilt, Sharing a Body, Unhealthy Relationships, really bad times to have power struggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28749771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarla/pseuds/Zarla
Summary: Masturbation is complicated when two people live in the same body.
Relationships: Edgar/Scriabin
Series: Vargas Stories [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/20964
Comments: 30
Kudos: 58





	Manual Override

**Author's Note:**

> Edgar and Scriabin's situation is so weird that it's kind of hard to classify exactly what sexual umbrella these acts fall under, but they are definitely **100% nonconsensual** (well, except the last one), and there is some description of the resulting trauma afterwards, so be warned!
> 
> Set somewhere early in Chapter 27 of [Vargas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/49492).

There really wasn't any way to ignore Scriabin's presence in his life. Even with the most normal, banal routines, Scriabin refused to leave his thoughts. He didn't do anything that'd put their mutual home at risk at least - he didn't cause any trouble while Edgar was driving, or eating, or working - so he had at least that much restraint. But no matter what Edgar was doing, Scriabin always said something or made a nuisance of himself in some way to make sure Edgar knew he was there, to reaffirm his existence. It was just what he did.

It was strange then that it never really occurred to Edgar that there was one, specific situation where Scriabin could interject in some way.

Edgar grew up in a fairly restrictive household, all things considered, although as he'd matured into an adult, he'd expanded his worldview and come to look back on a lot of old rules with more insight and better clarity. He was able to see them for what they actually were - unnecessary, illogical, baseless or subjective - and able to decide which ones, if any, still had any relevance to his adult life.

Edgar didn't like to think that he still carried some of the baggage of that with him - he was an adult, he was logical and sensible, he didn't carry childhood ghosts with him anymore. He was beyond and better than that, and there wasn't any need to think anything different about himself. That'd be silly and counterproductive.

One of those normal, unremarkable things he had no problems with in any way was masturbation. It was something that, he knew clearly and sensibly, was a completely normal act with no moral weight or relevance. There wasn't anything wrong with doing it, it was a normal urge that did no harm to anyone, and there was no reason to think more of it than that, or feel anything about it at all, really.

And that was, decidedly, how he thought about it. Nothing more than planned and repetitive movement to a particular point, then it was done and he could do something else. When the urge did come to him, it came with no accompanying mental image, no real emotion... often, just the simple thought of the benefits it could bring. After all, orgasm could sometimes make it easier to relax or fall asleep, or it could bring up some beneficial brain chemicals, or things like that. 

That was all the urge was, that and absolutely nothing else. Nothing really more notable than feeling thirsty or hungry. Just an urge he could indulge or not indulge, depending on his mood. No judgment, nothing wrong with it. Nothing was wrong with it, he reassured himself constantly.

It was a carefully mechanical process, removed of any and all emotional involvement whatsoever. It was usually in the shower, a simple and easy place that didn't require much preparation or thought. He'd blank his mind entirely of everything except focus on the exact physical details, a quiet tracking of it as it built through his body. Once it was over, it lingered for a little while pleasantly, then he went back to what he'd been doing before. Nothing special.

Edgar was completely silent throughout the whole process. In fact, his breathing didn't even change at all. The only real evidence that he was doing it or that he'd gotten off was that his face might have gotten slightly red, and his heart might be beating just a little bit faster, but that was it. It didn't mean there wasn't any pleasure to it - it was a nice feeling, which was why it was tempting, and it was easy to achieve with relative quickness if he did it properly, and none of it was really that big a deal or important at all.

He didn't think about it, just as he didn't think of anything while he was doing it except the physical sensation of it, and that was exactly what had been happening that day. He was in the shower, leaning against the wall with his other arm, his hand steadily busy, studying the physical build of it, calculating how much longer it'd be...

And then, quite softly, he heard something in the back of his mind. A quiet "ah", a small and breathless sound.

He froze, his eyes wide, blinking as his breath stuck. He listened harder than he'd ever listened for anything, and there was nothing. The water rushed over him, he wasn't moving, suddenly it felt like pins against his skin.

The silence was incredibly tense between the two of them, about as tense as Edgar's body itself. There was no way he could ask Scriabin about it, he couldn't say anything about this, what could he even _say_? He had absolutely no idea what to do except totally ignore it and pretend it didn't happen.

And he was terrified, briefly, that Scriabin wouldn't leave it at that. He never did, he was never silent and he never let Edgar get away with anything he didn't want to think about.

And yet, when Edgar slowly moved his hand away from himself, slowly went back to the rest of his shower routine... Scriabin didn't say anything. And when he reached out for how he felt, tentative and trying to make it seem like it was about anything except what had just happened... Scriabin shied away from him completely, and he had no idea what he felt.

Really, that was the ideal outcome.

Edgar got dressed, took a deep breath, tried to get on with the rest of his day and tried very, very hard to erase all memory of what had happened from his mind.

\---

It was a _little_ hard to touch himself after the incident.

Before, it had been so casual that it meant nothing, it took no thought, he felt no guilt, it just was what it was and nothing more. It was such a nothing thing to do that he'd never even thought to be aware of it.

Now, though... now that he knew Scriabin was watching, and worse, that Scriabin could... he couldn't even think it, too afraid of what Scriabin would say or do. Now that he knew Scriabin was there, he couldn't bring himself to touch himself at all. Even thinking about it made him nervous, panic and anxiety going through him as he'd wrench his thoughts to something else. He forced down and stomped any desire for those brief little moments of physical pleasure. He could not _allow_ himself to do that again, he couldn't.

Days went by, he felt tense and unhappy, teetering on the brink of some awful thing and he knew it'd happen at some point, and the waiting was unbearable.

 _Okay,_ Scriabin finally said, and this time somehow Edgar knew it was going to be about what happened. Something about his tone of voice marked it, he just knew. _Are you just never going to jack off again or what?_

 _Scriabin!_ And warmth went up the back of his neck, more from panic and the fear of punishment than anything else. 

_I'm just asking._

_I..._ Edgar had no idea what to say, how to deal with this, whatever this was felt too complicated and too hard to actually deal with. He wanted to just shove it under a rug so he wouldn't have to look at it, but as usual Scriabin was not going to let him do that. He knew he wouldn't. _How am I supposed to do that if you... if you can..._

There was an awkward silence where Edgar felt like he was drowning, and he flailed for anything he could think of to say. _Why didn't you tell me you could... you could-..._ What word? What word? All of them filled him with anxiety. _You could... know I was doing it?_

 _Of course I knew you were doing it. I live in your brain, you idiot._ Although Scriabin's voice didn't have the anger that he would have expected.

 _Why didn't you say anything? You just let me..._

_Why would I say anything about it?_ He could imagine an accompanying shrug. _As you tell yourself so often... it's not a big deal._

_If you're here- if you're also involved, it's not- it's not the same, it's not just... it's not just me doing it, you... you're..._

_Is that it? Bothered by the idea of a solo activity becoming work for a team? Aren't you used to that by now?_ Scriabin still sounded a little strange, words coming to him a little unevenly. _You've accepted my presence in pretty much every other aspect of your life. How are you still surprised by it?_

 _Because-_ What words were there for this? How could he explain this? _Because it's not just getting dressed, or eating food or reading a book or something like that, it's... it's..._ God, it twisted in him, it was one thing to just do it and not think about it, but now he was _thinking_ about it and now he had to put a real name to it. _It's... it's a..._ He winced internally as he tried to make the word come. _It's a sexual thing, that's not the same..._

 _Oh, are you afraid of offending my delicate sensibilities?_ Scriabin tried for casually light, but couldn't quite get there. _I'm not as scared of sex as you are. Haven't you picked that up by now? That's your damage, not mine._

 _I don't..._ He felt so uncomfortable in a way that was so hard to explain. _I don't want to... do things like that with... both of us._ And again he winced, his eyes shut tight. _I don't want to do things like... that, to... to you._

There was a pause, something heavy in that joined space between them, before Scriabin made a dismissive tsk.

_Like you could do anything to me I don't want. Like you have any power to force anything on me! You're terribly weak, Edgar, so terribly weak, you always have been. How many times do I have to tell you this? You can jerk off as spitefully as you like and it won't affect me one iota. I'm so far above you, you can't even touch me._

_But..._ He thought about that quiet little sound, the little shiver of pleasure he'd heard in it. It had been so quiet, Scriabin had been trying to hide it, he could tell, and the thought of it made his stomach feel heavy, his heart speeding up. _I... I heard you. Why would you... why did you do that? Were you just trying to make me self-conscious? Why would you do that?_ He still felt like he was drowning. _Does- does it bother you that I-... that I do that? Do you think it's wrong or something? You said it... that kind of thing doesn't bother you. Why would you want to mess with me about it?_

There was a pause, one that gave him the impression that Scriabin was thinking.

 _Don't you think it's odd how detached you are from the experience?_ Scriabin said, again with that forced ease. _It barely even registers to you, much like every other aspect of your life. Doesn't that seem odd to you? That's a rhetorical question - it doesn't. You're so used to being disengaged, entirely uninvolved in your own life and your own body, that it doesn't even cross your mind that being barely affected by your own orgasms might not be normal._

 _What's your point?_ Edgar thought, weakly.

 _I think the most eerie thing is how quiet you are about it,_ Scriabin said, attempting to sound thoughtful. _Can you imagine some porno where one of the people involved was just totally silent? That's really not normal, Edgar. Your body even barely reacts, except for that little moment where your brain grants you a pitiful little reward._

 _But... what are you getting at? I didn't... you weren't, you said you..._ He couldn't think, his thoughts were so scattered in some way to protect himself. _I wasn't..._

_As usual, I have to illuminate these things for you, have to show you exactly what it is you're doing wrong. Highlight all those emotional shortcomings of yours. That noise you heard was purely calculated, an example to you of exactly what it is you should be doing. Nothing more to it, of course... as I said, I am completely untouchable, as unaffected by your actions as you are. But it was a perfect opportunity to show you what it was you were doing, how you should react to it. What was missing._

Edgar really wanted to believe that since it was better than pretty much every alternative. _I didn't... I really didn't like that. I really don't want you to do that, okay? I don't want you... you making weird fake sex sounds when I'm trying to do... that._ He looked down, he was breathing strangely. _You... there's a lot of things you've messed up for me, but that... there's nothing wrong with that. It's just what it is... it's just a physical thing to make me feel okay for a few seconds. Do you really want to take that away from me too? Is that really so wrong...?_

Part of him felt, deep down, that it was, that this had been what he was hiding from, some quiet whisper burned deep into his soul that it really was a sin, and he couldn't let anyone know, and doing it was a disgusting lapse in self-control and he should be ashamed of himself. And he knew it was illogical and wrong to feel that way, he was an adult, he was mature and sensible and he knew better, and he wished there was some way to just cut that scar out of his mental skin and throw it away entirely. He'd almost done it until Scriabin had dragged it back up to him. Typical, what else did he even do?

 _Of course you see it as me messing things up for you,_ Scriabin said, with that same unevenness marring his usual nonchalance. _You child. You don't understand anything about what I do, or even what I say. Crying at me to stop teaching you things, like that's ever done anything. But, you do have a point... there really isn't anything wrong with it. I hear it too, you know. That piece of you that can't get over what you were taught. There really isn't anything wrong with it. And considering what we're going through lately..._ The pause felt heavy, and Edgar thought back over the past few days, over all the little disorienting, awful jitters in reality that kept growing more and more frequent... and the promise that that wasn't going to change. _Considering that, these little moments have new value. What little solace we can get right now is precious._

 _You want me to...?_ And he felt sick at the thought, he tried to shove it and any repercussions of it away as hard as he could. _Are you going to... stop being weird about it then? Stop making it weird for me?_

_As I said... there's nothing wrong with it._

_Why did you do it at all...?_

_Just to illustrate a point, which I think has now been made. It could be better than you think, if you'd just fully embrace it. But I doubt that'll ever happen. This is better than nothing._

And he thought a bit about it more, hesitant and painful, wanting to draw in as tightly to himself as he could. _...Do you feel me doing it...?_ And to himself, as best as he could think to Scriabin and think to himself at the same time, he thought, _please say no_.

 _Of course not,_ Scriabin said. _Like I said, you can't touch me at all._

And Edgar looked around the room for something, he wasn't sure what, still wishing he could huddle into a ball and somehow escape this entire scenario. _...Can... could you... could you... not watch? When I do it? I..._ He swallowed. _I don't... I don't want to do something like that if... someone else is there._

Scriabin snorted, in a way disbelieving. _Like I can just walk out of your brain and shut the door for those few seconds. You really don't understand anything about what I am. Besides, you make the entire experience as boring as the rest of your life. Why would I even be interested?_

 _Then... will you..._ Edgar winced again. _Turn your back, so to speak...?_

Another huff of disdain. _Like I don't already turn my back on you enough as it is. But don't worry your little head over it. Just go about your routine. Like I said, there's a point to this, a greater point, and I don't lose sight of those like you do._

Everything about this made Edgar so uncomfortable, but he didn't know how to make that stop, and more than anything he wanted to stop thinking about it. Run away from it, so to speak, and he braced himself to do it.

And Scriabin didn't say anything for a few seconds.

 _Are you going to finish your book or what?_ he said, in that familiarly nonchalant tone. _I need your eyes on the page, idiot. I want to see where this is going._

Edgar blinked and looked down to see the book shut tightly, his fingers between the pages, his arms trembling with tension, and he forced himself to let it go. _Right..._

It took a few tries for his eyes to settle, and at first when he read he didn't really understand the words until Scriabin laid them out for him clearly, and he managed to escape.

\---

Even so, it took him a few days to manage to get up the courage to try it again. The thought of it happening, the thought that they were too connected for Scriabin to get enough distance, the thought of Scriabin _watching_... all of it was repellent to him, filled him with anxiety.

But, finally, he managed to convince himself that it'd be alright, that nothing would go wrong, it'd be okay and there was nothing wrong with it. Just a simple physical process, nothing more than that.

Edgar struggled to keep his focus on that, although his anxiety about being watched was making his heart beat harder than usual, he was breathing a little quicker, and he was focused so hard on it that he almost, for a second, thought he heard similarly heavy breathing in the back of his mind.

He stopped, to make sure, and didn't hear anything. _Scriabin...?_

Silence, and he waited a few more tense moments, before reluctantly starting again. Having lost his focus, it took a little bit for him to get back to the same state, to get back to that same familiar build, to start to lose himself in it.

This time, just at the cusp of it, he heard a soft, strained "nnh".

 _Scriabin!_ He stopped again, his eyes wide as he stared at the tile. _Scriabin, you told me you weren't going to listen!_

 _I'm not!_ And he didn't sound a little breathless... Edgar told himself he didn't. _You're imagining things. You're so self-absorbed, you think everything I do revolves around you._

 _You were listening._ Edgar swallowed, trying to calm his heart but it wouldn't listen as he moved his hand away. _Of course you were lying, I should have known. You always do this! I don't know why I keep falling for it._

 _What do you think I was lying about, precisely?_ With some genuine anger in his tone, then an annoyed sigh. _Oh, you're not actually going to sulk and not finish, are you? Didn't I already tell you that there's a greater purpose for this? Not just for a bit of physical relief, but in the grander picture of trying to keep our mental stability? Can you even see the bigger picture, you myopic baby?_

 _You..._ The thought terrified him, he didn't want it to be real and in saying it it would be real, but he was angry and embarrassed and, on some small, physical level, a little frustrated and disappointed. _You can feel it, can't you?_

 _I don't feel anything._ Scriabin tsked, a bit louder than necessary. _You wish you could shove your feelings onto me so easily, make them my problem instead of yours. How you long to have me under your thumb! I'm sure thinking that I can't resist you brings you some great personal satisfaction. Fucked up, Edgar._

 _You said you weren't going to make this weird for me, and if it is for a greater purpose, then why are you sabotaging your own plans? You're the one who says this is important, why are you trying to make me stop?_ Edgar narrowed his eyes, anger still building. _What the hell are you even doing with this, Scriabin?_

 _I told you, you were imagining things._ Flippant, as always. _Should I be flattered that you're thinking of me while doing this? At least you'd be thinking of something instead of just being some emotionless robot._

Edgar felt his face go warm at the suggestion of it, at the thought of thinking about another human being during which filled him with ancient guilt and fear, but still that anger ran stronger, and physical frustration probably played a bigger part in that then he thought.

 _You're in control of this, you said? I can't affect you at all? This doesn't affect you at all?_ He was breathing a little quicker, anger pushing him inexorably towards something he knew he was going to regret but god _damn_ did he get tired of Scriabin lying to him.

 _You're weak,_ Scriabin said, although his tone was a little uneven again, almost somewhat wary. _For once you're actually remembering what I told you. It's a miracle! You and your little power trips._

 _Fine then._ And Edgar took in a deep breath. _If you're going to listen to me, then this time, I'm going to listen to you, just like you want._

And he moved his hand back between his legs.

He caught a brief sound, like Scriabin wanted to say something but stopped himself before it could come out, then a tension in the back of his mind that spoke of great focus.

This had always been such a mechanical thing before, completely removed from emotion, and it was a very different experience to be motivated by something closest to spite. It was very different to think of someone instead of nothing, to have them as the focus in that normally empty place, to tie that physical motion to anything other than itself. It made his breath come a lot harder than usual, there was something in the motion now that made it significant, brought it into sharp relief against his body, made everything that had blurred into nothing suddenly very clear and noticable. He'd done this so many times, but he couldn't remember actually _feeling_ what he was doing until this moment.

He focused, listened, and he heard it again, that strained little sound that he could tell Scriabin didn't want to make.

 _I knew it._ He was trembling now, and Scriabin made a frustrated sound.

 _It's-_ His breath caught, he let it out too quickly. _Typical for you to-_ Another sharp pause, like being startled. _To project- to imagine me- to pretend that I'm-_

Edgar knew it, he knew he was lying, and he wasn't really thinking about what that meant, or what he was doing. What he wanted was to prove him wrong, to really prove him wrong, to really hear undeniable proof that Scriabin had been lying. Something strange and foreign was driving him forward, unfamiliar and shaking, that made that final moment now incredibly important, more important than anything else, and hearing his voice, hearing what he was doing to him and knowing that he was right and Scriabin was wrong- his heart was pounding and he was panting now-

 _Nnh-_ And he could hear him now clearly, gasping and frustrated, he could hear him trying to fight it down which just made Edgar focus harder to prove him wrong, to fight him, to _win_. _Ah- Edgar- aah- I'm- I'm not going to- I'm not going to let you-_ A breathless, loud gasp. _Fuck, ah-_

The sounds he was making, they were getting louder, it felt like they were clouding everything else in his mind, blinding him to anything but wanting to push him to the edge of it, to _make_ him give in and admit it-

 _Bastard, ah-_ A trembling gasp now, and Edgar was too distracted to try and reach across their connection to sense what he was feeling, but some of it seemed to bleed over anyway, or at least he thought it did. There was a kind of fearful anticipation, an intense desire, something trembling and wanting, desperate grasping for control. _You- nnnnh- you bastard- god- I'm not- I'm not going to- you can't make me-_ And he let out a shivering moan.

Emotion flowed between them, tangling, focus and determination on his side, resentment and a kind of anger he didn't really know, and on Scriabin's side, something like growing panic, whatever equivalent there could be for a pounding heart, begging for something, desperate for something to stop or start happening, he couldn't tell. _I'm not- ah, aahhh- fuck you, I'm not- you can't make me-_ His voice was getting higher, that panic was starting to bleed through it, gasps and grunts of effort kept breaking through his words. _You can't do this- I won't- hnnnh- I won't, ah, I won't let you do this, f-fuck, fuck you- ahhn-!_ His voice cracked. _Fuck you, fuck you, you can't- nnnhgh- you can't-_

Edgar could picture him, almost, picture him trapped under him, picture his chest heaving, his face flushed, his hands pinned, that kind of helpless anger twisted into desperate want, an unwanted desire for him, for this, for him touching him, for him to keep touching him until-

_Stop -_

It hit him, warm and powerful, enough to take his breath away in a long gasp as it rippled his way through him, sent everything else scattering, what he thought had been pleasure before now just a pale imitation to this. He shuddered his way through it, a quiet moan under his breath, leaning heavily on his other arm, his legs feeling weak.

He could hear, all throughout, a counterpart to himself, louder of course and more powerful, because if there was one thing Scriabin could never do, it was be quiet. Some foreign kind of pleasure twisted into his own, heightened it and brought it to some strange emotional place he couldn't identify.

Edgar panted for breath, his heart pounding, he felt dizzy almost, and he could hear Scriabin likewise in the back of his mind struggling to get himself back under control.

 _Bastard,_ Scriabin said, quietly under his breath and trembling.

 _Liar,_ Edgar thought back, similarly shaking, and that powerful desire to be _right_ pushed away the ramifications of what he'd just done. _I knew you were lying about it._

 _Fuck you._ Scriabin was still breathing hard, his voice was shaking. _Fuck you for doing that to me._

 _I..._ And Edgar paused to think about it, something dark and cold coming up under the lingering warmth of release.

_Although really, I shouldn't be surprised that you made the pitiful little effort, that your petty little feelings from your petty garbage heart made you pitifully paw at me in some misguided, completely ineffective attempt to reach my pillar far above you. I bet you actually think you did something, you idiot. Like I'd ever let you do something I didn't want._

And Edgar knew he was lying, but it was far better than the reality of essentially jerking Scriabin off against his will. That thought made him sick, and that was deserved. What the hell had he been thinking? What had he _done_? 

Did it still count as masturbation if there was someone else in your body...?

 _I told you, you can't even touch me. I only experience things when I want to,_ he said, like his authoritative tone could drive all shakiness from his voice. _You're so pathetic, and as always, so gullible. You always waltz right into my hands, you do exactly what I tell you even when you think the opposite. Did you really think that my elaborate performance, not even a believable one by the way, was anything but a way to emphasize how little power over me you actually have? I'm sure you wish that I could be so easily manipulated, that I'm just as weak as you are. What do you think, Edgar?_ He took a moment to breathe, barely. _I was faking it, and you completely fell for it. Completely fell for it, so assured of your skill and tenacity and that you were actually doing anything to me. What do you think about being so gullible, Edgar? I wasn't even faking it well, you were just so desperate to believe that someone could want you, that you could do anything to bring pleasure to anyone. That you could have some modicum of power even in the most basic element of your life. Do you realize how pathetic that is?_

Edgar wanted to sink into the ground.

 _Sorry..._ His eyes hurt now, and he shut them tight, like he could somehow brace himself against himself. _I'm sorry._

 _Tch, sorry for what?_ Clearer spite. _You didn't even do anything, you just pretended that you did. If you're apologizing for being pathetic, there's no point. I know that's not going to change, and an apology without a promise to get better is worthless. That's why all your apologies are worthless, Edgar._ The words just kept coming, he couldn't let himself stop talking, like the words would keep the illusion standing. _It figures you'd take something as simple as this and turn it into something as ugly and stupid as you._

He did feel very ugly and stupid in about every way a person could. He couldn't even bring himself to try and reach across their connection, he knew what Scriabin would be feeling and he knew he deserved every bit of it. He caught glimpses of that image of him, breathless and panting, pinned down and fighting him, and he tried to drown them in disgust and anger, make them just go away.

Scriabin made a strained, quiet sound, resentful and angry in an awful shivering way. _Fuck you,_ he said in a small voice, then he took a moment to catch his breath and focus. _Pathetic. A waste of my time. You're wasting water. Get on with your worthless little life. You ruined whatever refuge you could get from this now. There's no point in crying about it or begging for some solace from me. You're the one who botched this, like you ruin everything. Even something as simple as this. You're disgusting._

Edgar managed to struggle out of the quagmire of self-loathing to move again. _I know._

_Good,_ Scriabin snapped, angry and sullen. _Don't ever forget it._

\---

Scriabin berated him all day and Edgar let him do it. He went to sleep and had absolutely terrible nightmares, and for once they were at Scriabin's hands and not that awful thing's, and he didn't fight against them at all. Scriabin yelled at him when he woke up and then basically didn't stop, every insult he could think of but in particular coming back again and again to the fact that Edgar was powerless, Edgar couldn't touch him, Edgar was weak and useless and Scriabin was invincible and in control of everything, he was obsessed with it in a way that made Edgar want to cry but he absolutely couldn't do that. Scriabin tore control of the body away from him as many times as possible but it was never for too long. Edgar would come back to himself feeling drunk, things broken around him, and when he looked at himself in the mirror, his eyes would be red and swollen.

He didn't really deserve the body he was living in. It wasn't just his own, and he knew that, and still, he'd forgotten it, and it was just to hurt someone else. How do you repent for that? What punishment can make that go away?

A few days went by of total misery, self-loathing that didn't need Scriabin's help to drag him deeper into depression, that fed itself with his own awareness of indulging in self-pity rather than doing anything to try and make up for what he'd done. Scriabin absolutely didn't want to talk about it, and when Edgar had even thought about bringing it up, Scriabin had basically mauled him for it, and he learned his lesson. 

There really wasn't any way to fix this. Scriabin didn't want to hear any apologies he had to make, and he had been right... they were essentially worthless.

Scriabin's anger had blazed powerfully at first after what Edgar had done, enough to blind him almost, then over time it had died down to a quiet smolder, something that spoke of the threat of calculating thought. He knew something bad was coming, although he didn't know what it would be. He did know he'd deserve it though.

The day that it happened, Scriabin had seemed distracted instead of vicious, not exactly an unwelcome change although it did make him nervous. His voice was tight with focus as Edgar went about his day, like he was trying to do something. He wasn't so focused as to not slap Edgar away when he tried to figure out what it was he was doing though, or to not slap him in general for no particular reason. Edgar wasn't really in the mood to argue or pursue it any further.

He was in the shower, trying to picture the water washing away his awfulness, purging him of sin, and then he imagined it just burning his skin away entirely until he died, and then he felt something very strange. It was the same kind of rising, crackling feeling, a burning kind of static, that usually came with Scriabin about to take control of him. He braced himself against one wall to keep his balance - he always felt dizzy before it happened and he didn't want to fall down. In spite of knowing he deserved all of it, he hoped the transition would be quick and there wouldn't be too much pain this time.

It built, he braced himself, then something about it sort of twisted and changed, something about it sharpened in a way he didn't recognize. His body tensed with fear of the unknown, adrenaline trying to prepare him for whatever was going to happen.

His hand moved.

 _Scriabin...?_ The thought hadn't found clear form yet, but somewhere, something in him knew.

 _Yes?_ Scriabin said, his voice a little strained, even as he tried for a kind of mocking innocence. Edgar's hand kept moving.

 _Scriabin..._ He took in a sharper breath, he stumbled backwards a little against the wall, but there wasn't really a way to escape his own body. _Scriabin, what are you doing?_

 _Oh, nothing._ His hand touched his chest, but it didn't feel like his own. _It's been a long day. Thought I might jerk off real quick before I went to bed._

 _I..._ His heart was pounding now as his hand slid down his chest, slowly, over his stomach. _Scriabin-!_

_What?_ And there was a dark tone in his voice now. _It's perfectly normal, isn't it? Just a normal urge, easy to resolve and easy to take care of. There's no need really to think about anything else._

 _Scriabin, I-_ Edgar was panicking now, panting, pressing harder against the wall like there was still some way to get away from this. He tried to will his hand to stop, tried to do something but his hand wouldn't stop moving. _Scriabin, I'm sorry, you don't have to do this-_

 _I'm not sure why you think you have any say in this._ His voice was level now. _This is my body, after all. I can do what I like with it._

 _Scriabin, don't-_ He shut his eyes with a faint whine as he felt his hand wrap around himself. _Please, don't, I don't want to-_

 _Do you think I care about what you want?_ Scriabin said, hate clearly threaded through his casual tone. _I've never done that. What an odd idea for you to have._

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know- I know it was wrong, don't- don't do this-_

_You can say whatever you want._ There was grim focus in his voice now, the sound of gritted teeth, of dark and wounded hate. _It won't really matter in the end._

His hand began stroking, he whined again, his legs weak as terror flooded through him, as panicked desperation had him scrambling to try and regain control of his arm, but it kept its steady motion.

_Stop, please stop-_

_This is my body, after all._ Scriabin's voice didn't change. _I can do whatever I want with it._

_Please stop-_

His hand was moving faster, just the same rhythm that he knew, that always worked, and he felt tears come to his eyes, he was hyperventilating almost with it. He even tried to shove his arm away with his other hand to no avail. The warmth of it was spreading through him, bringing with it the terror that came with the knowledge that this was going to happen and there was nothing he could do. Physical pleasure began to burn through despite everything in him trying to fight it, which only made him feel even more disgusting and awful, like on some level he _wanted_ this.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please." It broke through him in a sob as he felt it rising against everything in him, he could feel it building, he tried to fight against it but he couldn't make it stop. "I'm sorry, please-"

The image came to him now, against motion he couldn't escape, of his hands tied behind his back, unable to move or look away from Scriabin kneeling over him with that cold and cruel smile on his face, a leash tight in one hand that sent something tense through his stomach, his legs pinned apart and he couldn't move away from him, he couldn't get away from him, he had total and complete control over him, he was helpless to it and he knew he'd force him to beg for it, until he'd beg to be fucked senseless and helpless of his own free will because he _wanted_ him to-

He didn't want to, he fought as hard as he could against it, but it rose and overtook him too powerfully to deny, and he made a broken, shaking sound as he came, and he could hear and feel a pleased, satisfied response in the back of his mind in a distorted echo.

Edgar's legs did give out then, he sank down to the tile, shivering and crying uncontrollably while Scriabin tried to catch his breath.

 _Oh, why so upset?_ Scriabin finally said after Edgar had had a few minutes to try and get himself back under control. _I enjoyed myself. That's what matters, isn't it?_

 _I'm sorry..._ It was all Edgar could think of to say.

 _You didn't do anything. It's my body, after all,_ Scriabin said. _There really isn't anything you can do if I want to do something and you don't._

His head was pounding, his heart was still thumping too fast, he felt too cold and too warm at the same time. He thought again of having water melt his skin from his bones, and dying.

_Besides, I think you enjoyed it in your own way. That lovely mental image of being tied down and helpless... you've always liked that. I'm enjoying the image of it right now, savoring it just as you did before with me. Didn't you enjoy it? It was just what you wanted. I thought I'd give it to you, as a gift, while I was doing what I liked._

He really felt like he was going to throw up, but more than anything he wanted to die.

_After all... there's nothing wrong with it. It's just masturbation. It's very normal. It's not a sin... it doesn't hurt anyone._

Edgar brought his knees up to his chest and buried his head in his arms. Scriabin let him stay like that for a little while.

 _You're wasting water,_ he said, when Edgar's breathing and heart had settled down to normal levels. _If you don't get back to your normal little life, I'll take control properly and do it for you._

Edgar didn't move, waiting for the burning static that'd rise up and for a moment grant him a kind of oblivion.

If he was lucky, then he wouldn't come back.

\---

Several days passed this time, with Edgar barely functional, often sick and having terrible nightmares, too afraid to take a shower, taking the box of tissues by his bed and throwing it into the closet before he threw up. He spent a lot of time with an open book in his hands, staring at nothing, drifting out of his body. Tension made him constantly shiver, everything in him was exhausted.

Scriabin was quiet throughout, not in the sense that he stopped talking, since he could never do that, but in that his voice came as if from some kind of cautious distance, with no sharp edges or anything meant to hurt. He reminded Edgar of things he forgot, tried to keep him focused, coaxed him into doing the very least to take care of himself, talked with him about safe nothings to try and keep him engaged with the present. Edgar could feel, or thought he could feel, a soft hum of dismay from him, an unsure aura around an uncomfortable new space between them. A strange and unfamiliar sense of being at a loss.

Edgar was staring at nothing, empty and hollow, when the silence broke.

 _I think we need to talk about what happened,_ Scriabin said, without the casualness he would have expected him to have.

 _I'm sorry,_ Edgar thought, the only response he had about this. He blinked as his eyes stung, braced himself for whatever pain was coming.

 _I think it's a bad idea for either of us to do something like... that again,_ Scriabin said, quietly. _From either direction._

_I'm sorry._

_We already have a cavalcade of horrors trying to drive us insane. We don't need to do it to each other._

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Don't hurt me. I'm sorry._

_So, even though it's against my nature, let me lay it on the table, so we can at least understand what's going on, and figure out some better ways to deal with it than this. Because this... this is no good. This isn't going to help us at all, and we don't need to do that thing's job for it._

_I'm sorry._

_I know,_ Scriabin said, a bit too quickly, and he made a frustrated little noise. _Alright. Yes, I can hear you when you jack off. I can feel you doing it and the pleasure you get from it. I've been able to feel that for a long time. I didn't say anything because it wasn't just pleasurable for you. I think you already figured that out. It was about the only thing I was going to get, and I knew if I brought it up, you'd freak out and stop doing it. So sue me if I just wanted to get off sometimes, or at least get as close to it as I can._

Edgar found his hands going up to his head, shielding himself from nothing with his arms.

 _I wasn't going to... let you find out, but, I think..._ A moment of thought. _I think, with how close we are now, how much closer we're constantly getting, I think... it started to feel not so much that I was watching you, but that you were..._ Another pause, with a sort of frustrated hum. _That I was more involved. Not an observer, but... a participant, let's say, although you were no more aware of it than before._

A longer pause while Edgar stayed where he was, shivering.

 _I think, it got to a point where..._ Another frustrated sound. _The... closeness of it was... more than I expected, and harder to hide. And I think, given the current trend... I don't think that's likely to change. So, the fact of the matter is... it's not just something you do to yourself anymore. If you do it... I'm going to be there as well. ...Tell me, what do you prefer? Me, touching you? Or you, touching me?_

 _Don't hurt me._ Edgar whimpered.

 _Because, at this point, those are the two options. I don't mean literally, with... what happened the last time._ His words faltered a little. _But those are the options._

_Please._

_...Tell you what._ Scriabin's voice was softer now. _I think, from what happened last time... I think, it would probably be better for you to imagine you touching me. In fact..._ A moment of thought, and the impression of him carefully considering something. _You know, I've always wanted you to. I actually did enjoy it. I just didn't want to admit it to you, of course. If you did it again... I wouldn't mind it. In fact, if you did it again... you'd be able to tell very clearly that I'd want you to. I do want you to._ He was speaking softly, as gently as he was able. _If we both want it, it could be very good for both of us. It could be way better than just you by yourself. What would you prefer? It could really be as nice for you as you like. It'd be easy for me to make it exactly what you want. If we work together on this, it could be very, very good, Edgar._

Edgar just shivered.

 _It'll be very good, the next time. It won't be scary at all. You won't have to be afraid of anything. Neither of us will do anything wrong. Neither of us will get hurt._ His voice hitched for a second with the realization of what he'd said, then smoothed out again. _There's nothing to be afraid of. I'm willing to work with you on this. We both really, really need to work together on this. I think we've both... I think we both did more than we wanted or expected to to each other, but I think we can fix this. I think this is fixable, if we just focus._

 _Don't hurt me._ A faint and weak whisper.

 _I won't hurt you,_ Scriabin said, soft and understanding, with a gentle kind of sympathy. _I won't hurt you again. It won't hurt next time. It'll be just like you want, I'll make sure of it._

Edgar stayed where he was, shivering, hiding, and in the silence there was a strange, warm comfort coming from him he wasn't familiar with. There was a kind of effort or purpose to it, it was intentional, which didn't detract from it at all. Focusing on it eventually let the tension in him ease enough to move his arms again. He sat on his couch, his breathing thin, and then he ended up crying for a minute or two, and then it passed, and he tried to focus on that comforting gentleness he felt from him, an impossible promise of some kind of safety, what might have been a wordless apology if he'd been truly desperate. He really wanted to believe in any of it, and as worn out and empty as he was, he decided he had nothing left to lose.

He picked up his book again, stared at the words, and Scriabin read them outloud to him, and his eyes watered again and a few tears slid down his face, but not too many, and soon he felt too hollow to do anything but listen to his voice, and everything in his brain went quiet. At some point, he was in bed and trying to fall asleep, although he'd gone through such a haze to get to that point, he didn't know how he did it.

\---

Dreams had a way of defining their own reality, and of silently erasing pain and scars to let impossible things happen.

Scriabin touched his face, kissed him, ran his hands along his arms, pressed close to him so he could feel his heat, but more importantly, so he could feel another human body so close to his own. He was undeniably present, outside of him, as he kissed his way down his neck. He guided Edgar's hand beneath his shirt, he mumbled things to him in a soft and velvet voice.

"Come on..." When Edgar returned a kiss, he moaned almost too loud in encouragement, in a way that went through to his stomach, sent a shiver through him. "You know what I want. I'm right here. What are you waiting for?"

He wanted to say something, something felt important, or like he was forgetting something, but everything felt blurry and soft. He could feel him touching him, they were hands that were decidedly not his own, there was no way he could mistake them for anything else. Where they touched they left warm shivers, they pressed but not too hard. Scriabin touched him, he kept kissing him, he could feel his harsh breathing and the heat from him and the _want_ , but more than that, that it was an _invitation_... that he had the ability to _refuse_ this if he wanted... that fact pressed on him, insistent as the air around them, it loomed so close over this that it couldn't be missed by either of them.

"I know you want me..." Scriabin pulled away from him enough so he could see that smile on his face, teasing and yet for once, harmless, his hair sticking to red skin. "How could you not? Why don't you show me how much? I'd love to hear it... and I know you can do it."

Edgar wasn't used to being wanted, and he particularly wasn't used to Scriabin wanting him, and he especially wasn't used to Scriabin begging him to fuck him. Scriabin pulled him on top of him, ran his hands along his shoulders, underneath his shirt, wrapped his legs around him like an unsubtle hint. 

"I want you to fuck me," he said, sounding completely sincere, his face red beneath his glasses, breathing hard and desperate. "I _want_ you to fuck me, Edgar." He emphasized it hard, to himself or to Edgar, he wasn't sure. "I want you to fuck me so hard, I can't think of anything else but you."

Edgar kissed him, he ran his hands along his body and felt him shiver under him, he moaned and raised himself to meet his hands, begging him all the more fervently with each passing moment. He could picture it, easily, stripping him down, giving him what he wanted, and as though he could read his thoughts, Scriabin leaned his head back with a gasping, shivering, "yes, please, please", like he couldn't live without it.

His face was hot, everything in him felt tense, and was almost senseless with it...

And then he woke up, slowly, blinking and confused in the remaining warmth of it. His face was still hot and it tingled, and when he moved, he found himself just as hard as he'd been in that dream. It was still quite clear in his memory, he could see it, picture it so easily... he'd been so close, he'd almost been there...

Half-asleep, frustrated at being so close only to wake up unfulfilled, he found his hand drifting down without even being conscious of what he was doing.

 _Please..._ Scriabin's voice came to him still, hazy and dreamlike, and the picture in his mind became clearer. He closed his eyes to focus on it, it was so real, and Scriabin's voice made it impossible to ignore. _Fuck me, please, I need it, please..._

As hard as he was, it barely took any time at all. His breathing quickened, his heart began beating fast as his hand moved, he could picture himself inside him so clearly, the look on his face, he could _hear_ the breathless moans he was making, every begging plea to go harder, to give him more...

When he came, he made a faint, gasping sound that went well with the long shaking cry Scriabin made, warmth blooming between the two of them, pleasure that broke and rushed through him as his hips and body jerked and twitched through it, pinpricks sweeping over him as he felt lightheaded. He could barely discern his own emotion, or which sensations were his, as they met Scriabin's and tangled together powerfully, twisting upwards in steady and dizzying ascent. He could feel Scriabin's ecstasy, and it looped back into his own at knowing he caused it, which seemed to loop back to Scriabin as he experienced the same, and so it went back and forth between them with increasing speed and intensity until Edgar wasn't sure there ever could be or ever was anything else than this transcendent bliss, that the world could be anything but each other.

Edgar shivered through the aftershocks of it with trembling gasps until his body couldn't bear it anymore, tension leaving him as he gave himself over to exhaustion, and the high finally dwindled down until he could find himself and think again, panting hard.

 _Fuck... wow, I was so right._ Scriabin sounded breathless. _That was way better when we're both doing it. That was totally worth it._

Edgar felt hazy, tired, and the beginning hints of disgust and fear starting to creep upwards. Scriabin made a quiet shushing sound.

_I told you, I won't hurt you. I didn't hurt you. I'm not going to hurt you again, not with this. This is way, way too good for me to want to ruin it. You felt it too... I know you did. We need this. I won't hurt you._

Edgar tried to get his breathing under control, and he felt his eyes watering again, and he could still feel disgust and self-hatred trying to rise up, but something else shoving them back down.

 _I want to believe you,_ Edgar thought, shaking.

 _I'll make you believe me,_ Scriabin said, still quiet and cajoling. _As many times as it takes, I'll make you believe me._

He lay there in bed, vaguely aware that he was going to have to get changed and get up and get back to his normal life eventually. It felt hard to move, he felt so drained and exhausted. He'd never been wrung out by pleasure before.

 _I recall you wondering if it counted as masturbation if there were two people in one body,_ Scriabin said, a bit carefully. _If it helps you with this... in a way, it still is. We're both just doing it at the same time, in our own ways. It doesn't have to hurt either of us as long as we work it out before it happens._

_I want to believe you._

Scriabin sighed. _I know it'll take time. It'd have to, considering, but in the end it'll be worth it. I'd really rather be in my proper position above you for this... but I know you can't take it right now, and I can make sacrifices for a greater and much better reward. I can do that. It's my decision. It's our decision. This is under our control, Edgar. There's nothing to be afraid of._ There was the slightest waver to his voice, that tiniest hint that he wasn't only trying to convince Edgar of this.

 _I..._ Edgar swallowed, that hollowness in him somehow lending him some kind of strength. _I don't want to do anything I don't want to anymore._

 _You won't,_ Scriabin said. _That would not be productive. That's been made clear enough. Come on. Get up. You should eat something. It's still early. You can go back to sleep after if you want. You don't have anything else to do today._

Edgar stayed where he was, emotions trying to rise up that couldn't quite get past whatever Scriabin was doing to try and keep them down, or keep them from overwhelming him. Another came up, one he knew so well, he wasn't sure why it had taken this long.

 _Are you okay?_ The thought was weak and shivering.

There was a pause, confusion and surprise edging into that blurry border between them before it was drawn back.

_I was in control of it, from beginning to end. My performance was perfect as I am in all things, it completely convinced you just as I intended. Nothing happened that I didn't want. How could it? Everything worked out exactly as I planned, and I even got to prove to you that I was right. You're wrong so often, it's barely notable, but it's always enjoyable. Of course I'm fine. How arrogant are you to assume otherwise, like you could ruin something I planned out so perfectly? You're weak, and small, and that's why you need me to take care of these things for you._

The insults he knew, at least, and they provided some kind of stability between them both, something closer to normalcy than that uncomfortable and vulnerable sincerity so brief between them. Guilt still sat heavy within him, always hard to dislodge. Edgar closed his eyes, his throat tight with it. _I'm sorry I hurt you. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to do anything that might hurt you._

 _Like..._ And he coughed to strengthen his voice. _Like I've ever cared about what you want._

_I don't want you hurting yourself doing this if you don't want to._

_I'm not as stupid as you. I don't do things like that. You're the one who enjoys torturing yourself like you want to put me out of a job. I only do whatever I want, whenever I want. I always have and I always will. You felt it just as I did... that was good. That's what we need to remember about this. It can be good._ And he paused for a thin breath. _It can be really good, and we need that right now. You're too stupid to realize how badly we need that right now, but I'm not. This can be so good for both of us as long as we're in agreement about this one thing. Everything else you constantly do wrong, as I've said to you so many times, but this... this, you can do right, if you just do it properly. And I'm going to make sure you do it properly._ A moment. _In a way that won't hurt you, in case you're thinking of getting smart with me about it. I'm not stupid._

Edgar lay there, trying to focus on his breathing, trying to push down whatever trembling ghost of adrenaline left that faint sick feeling in his stomach. _I want to believe..._ He paused, trying to fight it down. _I want to believe it won't hurt again._

_I know._ And there was a pause, one heavy with things unsaid. It hung, formless, in that mesh between them. _The key to belief is repetition. Reinforcement._ A moment. _Refutation. Of course, I came to this obvious conclusion before you did. You'll stumble your way to it in time. Get up. You're probably feeling sick because you're hungry._ And he sensed Edgar's doubt in his silence. _And even if you're not, it will probably help._

Edgar stayed where he was, taking some long even breaths to calm himself down, and then, finally, he managed to get himself moving and got up. 

He had a number of routines in his life, some so invisible he didn't even notice them. This, he knew, was going to become a routine he would not be able to ignore. One that was just going to replace his old one, no matter what he thought about it, and no matter what he wanted. They'd gotten to a point where that just wasn't possible. His only choice right now was to adapt. 

Scriabin always made new routines. What Edgar did was get used to them. 

There really wasn't anything else he could do. 


End file.
